


I met someone in a sea of people and that's just how I'll leave it

by teenagedreamin



Series: words fic trilogy [1]
Category: One Direction
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, FUCK, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, I'm Sorry, M/M, Popular Louis, Shy Harry, alot of quotes, overapprieciation of how tee tiny my son is, that's all i really have to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:13:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagedreamin/pseuds/teenagedreamin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry likes obscure words more than he likes most people and Louis really wonders why the kid with curly hair and big sweaters never speaks when he looks like he knows so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I met someone in a sea of people and that's just how I'll leave it

_Psithurism_. Harry thinks, as he sits under the cherry blossom tree on the edge of the campus property just before the woods start. He writes it in the old leather journal and looks at everything surrounding him. The early morning sun breaking through the trees, the dew on the grass shimmering below him, the sweet smell of cherries and damp Earth, the humming of the creek deeper into the woods. _Fitting. A noun, ‘the sound of the wind through the trees.’_

He smiles to himself softly. This is what he loves. Just the quintessence of all of this _world_. The world far away from people and their crude voices and their loutish opinions and their boorish habits. Sometimes people were lovely, honestly. They could be kind and passionate and witty and beautiful. But most times, they really aren’t. A lot of times they assume without knowing, ruin without caring, adore without loving, kill without ever picking up a weapon. _With charm, the serpent can hide all_. He writes that bit down without realizing it. And under it, parts of an Oscar Wilde quote. _‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves…'_

 **  
** The alarm from his phone break him out of his thoughts and he sighs wistfully. Time for purgatory. (See: _school_.)  He puts the journal in his bag and starts walking back to the campus without glancing backward, knowing that he'll probably convince himself to stay if he does. And he can't skip class again, his mother had his head about two weeks ago when he it had happened. He's still getting shit for it.

 

\-------

 

Louis is having a good morning.  Which, with the way things have been lately, he’s surprised those even exist anymore. His parents had finally returned from some mid-marriage crisis honeymoon trip to Majorca.  They’d both come back incredibly happy looking and that was all good and fine  but Louis pretended not to notice his mom was on her fifth glass of wine that night at dinner and how tightly his stepfather #2 had gripped his fork when his mother started talking. He’d almost choked on his dinner when Lottie told them she’d won third place in talent show and Fizzy had muttered “Don’t get too sad. You know what they say, Lots, three’s the lucky number.”

But his mother had still gotten up before them and baked some cinnamon rolls for breakfast, which was the signature that she was okay. So here he was at school, on time, not dealing with Lottie’s clothing problems or Daisy’s braid being on the same side as Phoebe’s so people would confuse them, or anything really. He was watching Niall charm the pants off of, Brianna? Barbara? Something with a B. Liam was next to him occasionally saying something to Louis about a test or lint he’d found in his pocket. He missed the pre-class bullshitting.

The bell rang and he was probably going to try to skip trig. Try, being the key word. The last time he skipped, wasn't very eventful in the least. Zayn had been skipping as well and they’d lit up behind the bleachers and wandered around the edges of the campus. They’d ended up laying on the river bank, giggling at the birds and things. He’d been looking at a funny looking sparrow sitting on the top of a branch when he realized that that wasn’t a sparrow at all. It was a leg. Someone’s leg, tapping to the beat of some song. “Oi, who’s that?” Louis had asked sharply.

Zayn yawned, long and drawn out  before answering. “Probably Haz. He said he was gonna skip yesterday, and he usually comes out here when he does.”

Louis looks over confusedly. "Haz?"

“Harry, you know, curls, big sweaters, doesn’t say much to anyone else. He’s my best mate. You wouldn't believe how smart he is, honest. Has been since we were kids. It was great, watching their faces whenever 6 year old him  went off on a tangent about Shakespeare and apple juice."

Louis feels a tug of recognition as Zayn describes it. He sees him a lot, but doesn't really see him? Like he's there but, he doesn't try to stand out. Most of the rich kids here act the way they do in a plea of attention (Louis would know, he's one of them) but Harry always kinda just stood back at the end of the classroom, wrapped in different sweaters and writing in his journal, shuffling through the halls, muttering something to Zayn occasionally. Louis realizes with a dull start that he's never even heard Harry's voice. And this is his last year of high-school and they've been going to school together since they were still being potty trained. Huh.

 **  
** Louis is pulled out of his thoughts by someone bumping his shoulder. Well, speak (think?) of the devil. Zayn's grinning at him a little deviously and Harry's walking besides him, in a huge lavender sweater and the skinniest jeans Louis' ever seen on a person, suede boots and with a ratty leather bag thrown over his shoulder and looking around thoughtfully. Louis smirks a little, because even though Harry's a polar opposite to Zayn, with his band t-shirt and black jeans and hair done perfect and expensive cologne, something about them fits together. They're both walking at the same pace even with such different ways of walking, and the way Zayn instinctively reaches out to catch Harry anytime he stumbles. Or the way Harry will reach over and fix a piece of Zayn's hair or keep someone from bumping into Zayn by moving him to the left a bit. It's an odd fit, from the outside perspective, but definitely a good one.

(He decides not to skip trig. But totally not because Zayn is going and he'd have no one to talk to and nothing to do.)

Something about Harry peaks his curiosity though. True to what Zayn said, he had an incredible amount of sweaters (Louis would quite like to know where the Ironman one came from. He wants one like it. Maybe there's a Spiderman one), and he rarely spoke to anyone but Zayn.

It was after lunch, and Louis was walking to gym when he heard it. It was music coming from....somewhere. His idea was to ignore it and head to class because honestly, he couldn't have any more tardies. But then it got louder and Louis realizes that it sounds an awful lot like the song from Sleeping Beauty, but with Lana Del Rey singing it. And now he simply _must_ investigate it. So he follows the sound as best as possible to behind the tech building next to the gym.

He wasn't quite sure what to expect with the context of things, but he certainly didn't expect to find Harry, dancing carelessly to, oh look at that, The Sleeping Beauty song with Lana Del Rey. Louis realizes that he's in absolutely no position to judge Harry for dancing so..... ungracefully and wild, long limbs flailing with no rhythm, because he dances in the shower to the Grease soundtrack almost every morning. He's just about to turn away when he hears Harry speak. His stomach drops to his feet and the tips of his ears glow red because fuck, he's been caught and it's most definitely not what it looks like. But as he turns around to face his impending doom, he realizes Harry wasn't speaking him to him at all. He was just....speaking.

" _Balter_." Harry's saying to himself, as the song is ending. "A verb. _To dance ....artlessly. Without any kind of rhythm or grace, but with great enjoyment._ "

Louis quirks his eyebrows, because, did he just make up a word? Or, rather Zayn said he was very smart. But who remembers strange words and definitions by heart? Louis watches him for a second longer before he walks away.

(He absolutely doesn't Google the word ' _balter_ ' after he gets home from footie practice. And as he gapes at his computer screen because, apparently Harry is the type to remember strange words and their meanings by heart. A human dictionary. No wonder Louis is so curious about him. What a strange person.)

 

\-----

 

 

Harry stares at the board duly, sending an exasperated look to Zayn. Of course for his English class they're reading Romeo and Juliet. Of course. This place was such a stereotype sometimes. Shakespeare has tons of other amazing stories. Much Ado About Nothing, which was a comedy but as far as tragedies go, they could Othello, Hamlet, or literally any of his other stories, like Macbeth, even the unfinished one that they never found would be better than Romeo and Juliet at. (He read that in the third grade and even then, found it incredibly pointless.)

Zayn's pouting at him, and they've debated Romeo and Juliet so many times. Zayn loves it. And that's why Harry considers him a hopeless best mate.  He'd barely know good literature if it beat him across the head. He actually did throw a bag of books, that were literary genius, all of them, at Zayn's head last year. And still, he'd only read The Great Gatsby, telling Harry it changed his life.  Maybe there was hope yet. Probably not.

"You're kind of a literary prude." Zayn muttered.

"Sorry?" Harry said, tapping his pen against the cover of his notebook. "You're kind of a  literary ignorant. You didn't even know who Keats was until last year. You thought him and Ernest Hemingway were, like, the same person. Which, absolutely not."

Zayn flicks a piece of paper at him. "Sometimes I doubt you know what you're talking about."

"We're talking about _words_." Harry says sharply, bending his head down so the professor doesn’t pick him to pass out the assignment. “That’s literally the only thing I know.”

“That’s a little bit of an exaggeration.” Zayn told him. “Hey, hey hey!”

For a second, Harry thinks that Zayn was aiming that at him. But he realizes that he’s talking to the kid who got stuck passing out papers. Louis, he thinks. Zayn’s talked about him before. Or maybe Louis, like Lewis? That’s the English way. He’s spent too long studying French. And he doesn’t listen to Zayn when he’s high.

Either way, he walks up to Zayn with a small smirk on his face. “What could you possibly want from me now, Zayn?” He asks teasingly. “I told you we wouldn’t be wed til the spring. I simply refuse any time sooner.”

Harry found himself giggling a little. “Tosser. I was just gonna tell you I was having a party probably next Friday, and I thought I’d make sure to give you an invite this time, considering the last party I didn't went swimmingly." ****

“I was _outraged_ , Malik. There is no party without me, wanker. You’re lucky the very least I did was dump your goldfish in your fancy toilets and put Nutella and Vaseline on your dressers.”

“But on my _sister’s_ , plural, as in all of them, was a little unnecessary. They put that industrial glue in my hair products for weeks because of that. I still don’t hear the end of it. Even managed to put Harry's curls in danger.” Zayn informed him, getting slightly worked up as he leans over and pets at his hair. Harry had  used one of those hair products by mistake and almost cried when he tried to comb through it after. Doniya had almost cried herself out of guilt and hand washed Harry’s hair, doting over the curls almost lost.

“You deserved every bit of it. Even the guilt of knowing your friend had almost gone bald." Louis replied haughtily.

"Whatever, whatever. You'll be coming then?"

"Oh absolutely! Wouldn't miss it for the world. I might be a little late. But save me a dance with the prince himself." And with that Louis did swung his hips exaggeratedly as he walked away, singing the main song from Sleeing Beauty. Harry found himself laughing a little. And then realized that he’d shown emotion . _In school_. Mark him as prey.  

“As usual you’re not going?” Zayn pointedly asked.

Harry gave him a sharp look. “You know I love you. But crowds, people…”

Zayn quirked his lip up. “I know, mate. The invitation always stands. Not sure how you’re gonna make it as a singer if you can’t appeal to the general public. Having a gorgeous best friend might not work forever.”

“‘S working for now.” Harry absently commented, but he was already writing down something.  

**  
**  


\-----

**  
**  


That day, after practice, Louis was walking the long way to the parking lot. He’d take a few minutes for himself before he had to deal with the chaos radiating from his family lately by being stuck in a car with them for thirty minutes. The river looks like a particularly nice place to sit, even when you’re not stoned. Louis walks over and throws his bag down and lays out on the grass, using his bag as a pillow and staring at the sky.

 **  
** His phone is most definitely vibrating frantically in his pocket and it’s too much lately. Upon the probably fall out of stepfather number two, everyone’s developing this frazzled energy.

Louis is pretending not to notice how late he’s getting home and how close he keeps his phone to him, (maybe there’s more to this fall out than he thought, it’d honestly surprise Louis if the leggy secretary _wasn’t_ all over his stepfather), trying to stop counting the glasses of wine his mother has had and Fizzy skirting by whenever she’s asked about her grades and who the fuck Lottie stays up so late texting and giggling at odd hours of the night. The only ones who don’t seem affected by it are the twins but they always have a sort of frantic energy about them. Louis needs Zayn’s party. He needs an escape: expensive alcohol and high quality weed and a long slow fuck in one of Zayn’s guest rooms with a stranger sounds like a good way to go about it.

Louis’ just thinking he should get up when he hears footsteps behind him. He turns his head up and sees. Harry. Who doesn’t say anything, as usual, but is peering down at him with curious jade eyes. He sits down next to Louis lightly. And then seems to think better of it, and lays down. Louis smiles in spite himself.

“Hi.” Louis says.

Harry nods in response. Doesn’t speak, just nods.   
  


“You’re Harry?” Another nod. “I’m Louis.” Yet another nod. They sit in silence for another minute or so before Louis speaks again. He can’t help it. Silence itches at his bones if there’s someone to make noise with. He turns to look at Harry and finds him staring at the clouds.

“Hey, Harry?” Louis asks. Harry turns to look at him. “You’re good with words, right? Zayn told me that you know more words than most dictionaries.” With a slight blush, he gets another nod. “What’s the word for, like craving freedom? Like above anything, just wanting to be free?”

There’s a thick pause. Louis thinks maybe he overstepped a boundary, but as soon as he feels like cliff jumping Harry mutters, almost imperceptibly, “Eleutheromania.”

“Eleuth- again, please?”

“Eleutheromania. It’s a noun.  A great or irresistible urge for freedom. Sometimes it’s used in a more, harsher sense. Like an obsession with freedom? But I don’t really think that’s fair, ‘cause everyone wants to be free, somehow or someway.” Harry explains. He’s got a very nice voice. Deep and raspy, like a cookie crumbling and melting all at once. Soothing. Louis could think of worse things than to listen to him talk for a while.

"Eleutheromania." Louis repeats.

And Harry nods again. Louis chuckles. And he's surprised, and he can tell he surprised Harry as well. But it's pleasant. "You're quite interesting, mate."

Harry flushes again. Interesting. "Anyways, I've got to go. Pick up my sisters and all. Thanks, for erm, Eleutheromania." Louis gets up reluctantly, dusting off his bag and his shorts.

"Eleutheromania." Harry says it like it's goodbye. Which, it sort of is. Louis gives a small wave and starts to walk off.

When he's sitting in the car fifteen minutes later stuck listening to some crappy pop music while Fizzy and Lottie bicker and Daisy is yanking on Phoebe's hair because she won't stop kicking, no one can prove that Louis is chanting the word over and over again like a mantra.

 

\------

 

Louis is strong. Louis has the stubbornness of a pitbull with all his food taken away. Which is why he tells himself to completely _refuse_ to go back to the river today. (This is the third time he's tried to tell himself that. It has yet to work.)

 **  
** The river is almost the same every day. Harry will already be there, laying in the grass, humming to himself, or writing in his journal, or staring at the clouds in wonder. Louis will lay down next to him, Harry will scoot closer and use his bag as a pillow and it's quiet for a little bit. Sometimes Louis will talk, about anything or nothing. A crazy story Niall told him at lunch, his chem teacher giving him a shitty grade. Harry always listens, usually quietly laugh-smiles, occasionally tells him the meaning of a word or something Zayn did. He doesn't talk that much but Louis already knew that. Louis doesn't mind being the center of attention and Harry doesn't seem to mind giving him that either. It's sort of his safe space. It was Harry's first, technically and Louis feels bad for invading it but when he'd said that, Harry had pouted at him and said, "It's partially yours too. So it's like, ours." Louis tried not to control the suggestive fluttering in his heart, because no, it's not like that. They're not, - fuck, _they. Ours._

Which is partially he's deciding to avoid Harry's existence. Which is _way_ fucking harder than usual. Louis sort of started to find him in the room absently since the Disney Dancing incident and what makes it all the more worse was that ever since the first day he went to the river and Harry sat with him, sometimes, when he looks over at Harry, Harry's wondering stare is already focused on him. He'll give a small smirk or an arch of an eyebrow and Louis will always roll his eyes in response. It's not much at all, but it's almost too much.

 

And for the third time in a row, Louis is weak. So very weak. He tries to find shame in his weakness on his walk down to the river, to tuck his metaphorical tail between his metaphorical legs, but there isn't any shame to be found. Or tails.

******  
**  


\-----

.

It starts the same. Harry's already laying down, journal and bag on his left. Louis puts his own down and lays, watching as Harry scoots over and use the other half of the bag as his pillow.

But then, as soon as Louis starts to relax, Harry does a thing. And the thing Harry does is just start _talking_. He's never initiated the conversation before. Absolutely never. And that was just fine by Louis, he’d never complained about talking if someone was there to listen. Harry seemed absolutely content to let him rant to him, and even though he probably wasn’t listening, it seemed like it. He never speaks til Louis asks him to, and that was okay by the both of them. But clearly that's changing. Louis thinks he’s absolutely okay with that.

"Do you see that cloud?" Harry asks, pointing at the sky. "It sort of looks like a.."

"A wang?" Louis finishes, grinning hugely when Harry starts giggling. Fucking _giggling_. He's not a real person.

"I was gonna say a trumpet, you knobhead. Get your head out the gutter."

"A trumpet? In what universe do a trumpet and a dick look even remotely the same? You're clearly an not an expert on dicks." Louis was rolling his eyes now. But part of him was wondering. Harry and his experience with dick seemed like a good place to put his interest.

"You do talk some shit." Louis retorted. "Because, perception or not, no guy I've ever been with has had a dick like a trumpet. Now, maybe their dicks have brought on some musical sounds, but...."

"Oh, and I talk some shit?" The sarcasm in Harry's voice was thick, but the smile on his face was evident. The hesitancy before him cursing was absolutely not making Louis’ heart do jumping jacks. He  was cute. It was stupid.

Harry  started humming along with some song for a minute and closed his eyes. "Zayn's crush on Liam is getting worse. I swear when that new girl Sophia showed up and Liam showed her around today, he looked like he didn't know who he wanted to kill more. Liam, her or himself."

"He was awfully friendly either her, wasn't he?" Louis noted. "He almost kicked Eleanor from the lunch table just so she could sit with us. El was this close to killing him for accidentally spilling yogurt on her striped pants."

"I don't blame her. The black and white stripes right? I liked them. Might try to find me a pair."

Louis choked on air, because what even? "Wouldn't really fit your 'under-the-radar' persona."

"I think I could pull it off." Harry said, mock offended. "I have _fantastic_ legs."

******  
**  
\-----   
  
  


 

“Are you going to Zayn’s party tonight?” Louis’ voice broke Harry out of his thoughts. Harry looked over and shook his head. Louis nodded. “I thought you might say that.”

It was an offhand comment and that shouldn’t have bothered Harry as much as it did. Louis had honestly meant nothing by it, but it caused his bones to itch with something. Harry’s very good and hiding his emotions, putting on a dreamy facade to keep himself safe. But curiosity is the only thing he can never ignore and put a mask over.That’s how he ended up walking up to Louis on that first day. _'Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.'_ His hand twitches, out of irritation or  an urge to write the quote he just reminded himself of.  He grabs the journal.

Louis seems surprised at his sudden restlessness, but doesn’t seem like he’s able to decide what to say. He seems to come to a decision when he says, “Are you alright, Haz?”

 **  
** Harry nods too quickly and scribbles a mark on the page. Yet again, Louis appears hesitant. Part of Harry feels guilty for this, he’s being shitty and stupid over a little comment that shouldn’t have meant anything. The other part takes pleasure in it, the unsure set of Louis’ mouth and the indecisiveness in his eyes, that the loud, brash and reckless Louis Tomlinson who always appears fearless and impatient in _any_ matter is unsure of how to respond to him, wants to take caution. The thought makes Harry want to laugh.

 

In fact, he does. Laugh, that is. He can’t help it, everything is bright and dim and it hurts and is numb all at once and the laugh just bursts out of him. He laughs so hard he drops the journal and the pen and his hands stop shaking, and his whole body is shaking. He just laughs and laughs and laughs until he’s breathless and his hair is wild and his eyes are glassy and he’s fallen over twice and Louis is staring at him partially cautious, partially amused. He finally stops and lays in the grass, catching his breath. Nothing is really bothering him anymore, especially with Louis looking at him bemused and sort of fond. He  reaches down for his journal and pen and writes down two words. _Strikhedonia; the pleasure of being able to say to hell with it  and Floccinaucinihilipilification; the act of deciding something is useless. (Latin root, English word, around mid 18th century.)_ Louis is still staring at him when he closes the journal and sets it down.

“You know, you are something else, Harry Styles.” Louis mutters.”A right and proper madman, if there ever was one.”

Harry simply smiles in response. “I might be there. I can’t make any promises though. Do make it memorable though. Light up the hallways with what a party animal you are on Monday. I’ve got to go now, but you should know I envy you, Louis Tomlinson.”

 **  
** "Why's that?" Louis cocks his head and his eye's crinkle, but he's not smiling the same.

"No reason." Harry mumbles, picking up his ts and leaving while smiling just the same.

 

\-----

**  
**  


It's not until later that Harry realizes he left his journal. It's around 11 or so and that means that means his father is going to wake up soon, and find out what happened in the kitchen earlier, having to do with his mother and the pool boy in a compromising position that Gemma had caught them in. Anne was on her fifth glass of  Chardonnay since, and she was wondering why it wasn't working like it should've. "Switch to malt liquor, Ma. It does wonders for your soul. Or you could do it like the Americans, and have a Long Island Iced Tea." Gemma commented at dinner.

Anne had scolded her sharply. "That is inappropriate, young lady. Speak quieter. We don't want your father waking up."

Harry tapped Gemma's shoulder and whispered "She's lost the key to the liquor cabinet." And dropped said key, into her palm under the table. He wasn't totally out of his family drama, he was protecting his mother from Alcoholism.

But that's besides the point, his father will find out, as he always does, will drink and go on a tirade and Anne will be quick to retaliate, and, he's just trying to stop himself from listening anymore. He finds headphones, charges his phone, opens his window and searches for his journal. It's, not in his bag or his backpack and he's realizes the last place he saw it was laying in the grass besides Louis. Fuck.

His breath starts to quicken as he hears the sound of footsteps upstairs. He's awake. Harry's panicking. He can't be here for this. When he was younger Gemma used to sneak into his room and  cover his ears and sing to him, rocking him back and forth with the rhythm of the rain. He hasn't physically heard their arguments since he was 14 and Gemma left him alone for the first time while they were fighting. He grabs the messenger bag and and looks between the door and the window as the footsteps get louder and closer.

He makes a split second decision and runs out the window. He doesn't even know where he's going, he - He needs to find the journal. He's going to the school, then. It has to be there, unless Louis took it.

Fuck. What if Louis took it? That journal is all his thoughts, all his stormy thoughts that eat him alive sometimes, and quotes from people around him and authors and embarrassing things, like the line of Louis' jaw and the curve of his lips when he's gazing up at the sky in wonder. Or the secrets that shine in his eyes and smile when he looks at Harry. It’s quite possible Harry’s realizing he might kind of have a sort of thing for Louis. _A scintilla. (scintilla - a tiny flash or spark, barely visible trace, a very small thing._ He tries to ignore the way his hand itches to write that down.) A very very microscopic, so tiny small little scintilla it’s almost not corporeal. Great.  As if this night could get any wor-

It’s raining. Of fucking course, just as Harry is talking about how terrible his life is, the sky decides to laugh in his face. His already halfway to the school, he hasn’t got a jacket besides the light windbreaker and, he needs his journal for fuck’s sake. He definitely can’t go back to his house now, and doesn’t much feel like risking hypothermia. The only place he can think to go is Zayn’s. _Zayn’s_! He’s always been welcome there, Louis is there anyways (Harry refuses to believe the journal is at the river at this point, Louis is too smart to not have noticed it. He was going to end up at Zayn’s most likely anyways) and it’s less than five minutes away. He makes a left turn at the sign and counts three mailboxes before he’s greeted with the familiar sight of an almost castle. There’s drunk teenagers just about everywhere. The sight makes him nauseous.

The plan is simple enough. Walk into Zayn’s house, get to the fourth floor, find the guest room that basically belongs to him at this point, change into some fresh clothes, find Louis, find his journal and maybe a bottle of cheap wine and retreat to his guest room and probably sleep.

Enacting the plan, however, was much easier said than done. For one there were drunk teenagers all over the place, for two there was the fact that Harry hated people when they were sober, how could he deal with them when they were drunk? For three, there was the fact that finding Louis was going to be three clusterfucks and a half. He was thinking about this as he walked up the driveway, shuffling around idiots sleeping on the porch in the rain. The sound of music was getting loud enough to rattle the door frame. Harry took a deep breath and pressed open the door.

The music was deafening, the smell of weed and cheap booze flooded in and the buzz of drunk people was everywhere. He cringed as he walked around the makeshift dance floor took off his jacket and made a beeline for the stair entrance off to the side. He looked around for Louis, so he could get a general idea of where he was at to talk to him later.

He made it to the stairs with little to no  complications. (One girl had tugged on his curling and getting, before scampering off and falling on her face. He guiltily ignored the urge to help her up.) From the stairs, he had a more panoramic view of the room. After searching, he found two kids dressed as giraffes, a guy who was dealing Molly, and a group of kids preparing to jump in the pool (Liam amongst them, with orange floaty arm things and sharks on his swim trunks), but no Louis.

Just as he was about to turn and go upstairs Harry found him. He was standing by the door, and,, well. He was out to kill apparently. He was wearing the tightest pair of jeans Harry had ever seen on anyone, including himself, and he was all but leaning on some guy's chest, eyelashes fluttering and occasionally talking, but a lot of coy smiles and teasing touches.

Harry feels nauseous and jealous and angry and overwhelmed and confused and sad and  he just needs to get out now. But, of course, because his life can't get any better, Louis chooses that moment to look around and he sees Harry.

Like, makes full eye contact and all. His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning, and kind of waves. The turmoil hits it's peak and Harry, just, panics.

He turns and runs up the stairs, guilt starting to set in. He manages to get to his room and slams the door behind him. He lets out a series of gasps that and oh, he's crying. Tonight is too much, entirely.

Once he calms down a bit and washes his face, he sees there's a boatload of Crown and cheap rum. It isn't a good combination at all, but if it'll get him drunk it's all he needs.

He opens a bottle and takes a series of long swigs. It burns just right, and the Crown is almost half way gone and always having been a light weight, it's starting to kick in. He giggles for the he'll of giggling, takes another few burning gulps and oh, the giggles are continuous.

There's a knock at the door after what feels like a few minutes and an unsure, "Haz?"

"Come in" Harry slurs, and starts to giggle again at the sound of his voice. The door opens and oh, there's Louis. He's still wearing those painted on jeans but this time his hair is a little more controlled. He doesn't have some guy's hands plastered to his ass either. That's definitely an improvement.

"Louuuis! Awe, Louis, you look so tiny even from this angle. You're, awe. You look like a tiny ray of sunshine. Why am I still talking? I feel like I should have stopped talking a while ago. Hey, do you have my journal? I lost it! And I need it to write down this word! _Capernoited. Slightly tipsy or intoxicated. Peevish._ "

Louis was staring at him bemusedly, all fond and a little confused and yeah, that was way nicer than him flirting with some trashy jock. "I do have your journal, love." Louis finally answered. "With me actually, we can go get it if you like. You can write any words you like."

" _Eutony! Selcouth! Whelve! Accismus. L'appel du vide. Je parle Français. Saviez-vous que?  Je n'étais pas mentir quand j'ai dit que vous m'avez rappelé du soleil. J'espère que vous n'a pas lu quelque chose dans mon journal. Ce serait gênant. Certaines d'entre elles est à votre sujet. Beaucoup d'elle est environ de nos jours. Oups. Ah, Eh bien, ce que font-ils appel il ? Adoxography. Adoxography. Beautiful writing on a subject of little or no importance. Parce que mes sentiments n'importent pas du tout. Ils ont jamais. Ils ne seront jamais soit. C'est la vie."_

"I don't know a word you just said. Not even the English bit. C'mon, Styles, let's get you a journal and a glass of water."

"I wanna dance, Louis." Harry said, scrambling up. "You know I've not ever partied while I was this close to sober?"

"You're not close to sober at all." Louis said, grabbing his hand and leading him down the hall. "If you dance, you might not get the chance to write those words down. And you don't want to forget them, do you?"

No. Harry shook his head so vehemently he could feel his curls shaking. Louis is still pulling him, holding his hand. "To be so small, you are very bossy." Harry muttered, squeezing his hands. "And you've got very nice hands."

Louis was grinning and shaking his head and shoulders like he was laughing. Harry didn't understand what was so funny. He distracted himself by playing with Louis' tiny fingers. Did he mention Louis was tiny? It was adorable. Like a little pixie, with the pointed ears and pointed hair and all.

Harry didn't realize when they'd stopped walking but they had. And suddenly Louis' warm little hand wasn't in his, but the cool  leather of his journal and a pen. Louis wasn't even in, whatever room this was, anymore either. He reappeared with a glass of water and some tylenol. Harry puts the book and pen down and opens his mouth wide and blinks up at Louis.  Louis is laughing for no reason again. "Seriously? You just can't take it yourself?"

Harry closes his mouth to frown and shake his head. He folds his hands in his lap and pouts for a second. The tylenol was Louis' stupid idea anyways. He could do it himself."Fine, fine." Louis mutters. "Open wide then, Styles. You're gonna have a helluva headache tomorrow but hopefully this will help."

Harry opened his mouth again and Louis put the pills in, but refused to pour the water in Harry's mouth.

("You're just being plain lazy. No one likes a lazy drunk."

"'M not a lazy drunk. Zayn says I'm a clingy, flirty drunk when I'm around a lot of people. I don't think that's very true though." Harry told him seriously.

"You're a talky drunk." Louis commented.

"You're talky all the time. Loud, loud, loud, you are.")

"C'mon, let's go to the balcony. It stopped raining a few minutes ago anyway. Fresh air will clear your mind." Louis said, helping him up. Louis started to just walk away, but Harry grabbed his hand. If he was going to lead Harry once, he was  going to lead him all night.

**  
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Harry's been writing for the last twenty minutes and he already seems a little more sober. Louis is a bit thankful for that. They're both sitting in chairs on the balcony and Louis is wondering why Harry seems so focused.

"Can I ask you a question?" Louis inquired.

"Mhmm." Harry sounded, without looking up.

"Why are words so important to you? Like, why do you always know just the perfect word to describe something? Why do you want to know?"

There was a pause, and the sound of the pen scribbling on the page stopped. Louis could feel Harry's eyes on him, but he was intensely looking at the stars. " _Le mot juste._ " Harry said, after a minute of two or silence. " _The exact  word perfect for the situation, at exactly the right time._ It's because, I feel like, there's a reason for everything that happens. And if there's a reason for something, it can be clearly defined. I think knowing something is better than never knowing and always wanting to. It's like, it's called a logastellus. A person whose love of words is greater than their knowledge of words."

"And you don't wanna be that?"Louis was still finding the whole eye-contact concept stressful. "I was always told the best things in life were too strong to be defined. It's like that one Oscar Wilde quote. ' **To define is to limit.** '"

"You can quote Oscar Wilde?" The joy in Harry's tone made him finally look over. He was beaming at Louis, eyes' sparkling and dimples in full effect. "Louis Tomlinson, you may be the best company I've had in a while."

"Don't tell Zayn you love me more than him. I think it'd break whatever's left of his soul." Harry chuckled slightly. "What were the words you were saying earlier? Not the tipsy one, but the ones following, and when you started speaking French."

Harry paused. Louis waited, and subconsciously leaned closer. _"Eutony, it means the pleasantness of a word's sound. Whelve, to bury something deep, or to hide. Selcouth, something unfamiliar and rare and strange, yet totally marvellous. I can't remember what I said after that, so it must have been a solecism. I usually have more manners, hm?" Louis knows what that one means. 'A breach in etiquette. A grammatical error or a minor blunder in speech."_

And oh, Harry's face is a lot closer than before. Extremely close. Louis tries to ignore the way his heart speeds up, or how plump and pink and kissable it should be illegal Harry's lips are. It's unfair. "The one that made start speaking French?" He was trying to sound casual and unaffected, but there was a breathless quality to his voice.

" _L'appel du vide._ " Harry was whispering now, and his knees bumped against Louis's. "The unexplainable urge to jump, when on the edge of a cliff."

Harry's hand was suddenly in his again and Louis leaned in and, oh, their foreheads were touching. Harry closed his eyes. "So," Louis murmured.

"So," Harry murmured back.

"I think I'm gonna jump." Louis said and, boom, kissed him.

Harry seemed as shocked by it as he was, but his reaction time was flawless and he was kissing back almost desperately. His lips were soft and warm and tasted like strawberries and Crown Royal. The kiss got deeper and Harry started making these small addictive little noises and moved his hands to Louis' ass. Louis definitely wasn't complaining.

He was entirely in Harry's lap by the time he pulled back, panting. "I -" Louis said at the same time Harry said  "yeah." Harry, and kissed him again.

**  
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Louis hasn't spoken to Harry in two weeks. Harry hasn't said anything either. The night they kissed, the party ended and his 3 am curfew was still intact. He'd bid Harry goodnight between giggly kisses and wrapped him in blankets. Harry was either still a bit tipsy or a lot happy, because when Louis tucked him in he reached up and yanked Louis down, mumbling something about being the little spoon and kissed him again.

Saturday and Sunday were a blur of rain and movies with the girls. The only real contact with Harry was when texted him with no words,just an elephant emoji. Louis sent back the eyes emoji.

The following Monday, Harry avoided him like the plague. In the halls, in some of their mutual classes. When school ended, Louis walked down to the river bank. Harry was up in the tree, back facing the world and headphones in, scribbling furiously in his journal. He clearly didn't want to talk. Biting down the sharp feeling in his gut, Louis reached around for his keys and started to walk the other way.

That was his new policy when it came to Harry, it seemed. Whenever he saw Harry joking around with Zayn in the hallway smile foudroyant and dimples out, or when Niall mentions that "the tall curly lad" is helping him pass philosophy. Or when he'll stop by the river sometimes and see Harry perched in the tree, scribbling away. He pushes down the feeling like he's been stabbed in the gut by a dull knife, smiles, turns around and walks away.

**  
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It’s shitty. Harry knows it’s shitty. Harry’s life is a constant reminder of how shitty it truly is recently. When he sees Louis in the hallway, when he talks to Zayn and there’s the concerned best mate thing, when he cringes away from anything to do with Louis is mentioned or in the same room. The worst times, truly are when Louis sometimes takes short cuts to the parking lot after practice. He crosses the river head down until the very last second, where he makes the mistake of looking up every time. Every single fucking time, it’s always the same. Harry pretends to be scribbling something down or listening to music. Every time, every goddamn time, Louis pauses, makes this face of utter hopelessness, lets it wash over him for a second and then smiles.

It’s too real. The smile, the whole five minute period in which all of this happens, it’s too real, too raw and too much and it sends Harry spiraling. Seeing Louis in the hallway, he almost doubts it. Doubts that Louis is affected, at all that is. He’s so heart-achingly normal, laughing and joking and being the center of everything. He looks like the sun, and if it weren’t for the way he deflates and looks as small as he really is. One should never have to watch the sun deflate, Harry realizes. The sun is actually one of the smallest stars in the cosmos, but to the people on Earth it’s the brightest and the biggest they’ve never seen. It’s not destined to burn out for another hundreds of thousands of years.Well, he doesn’t exactly know. He’s not an astronomer. The point is, this generation is not meant to see that. Harry’s been cheated.

He just doesn't know. He doesn't know. He's known the words of Aristotle since he was six and he can quote three and half dictionaries and the entirety of _Grease_ within 20 minutes, but when it comes to Louis, _he just doesn't fucking know_. He doesn't know if Louis's into guys, and if he is, is he out of the closet? Is he into Harry? Was he just tipsy and lonely and bored? Did he even want to be a thing? Did he wanna fuck and keep going as friends?

Now a logical assumption here, would be to talk to Louis. To figure out. Then he would know. But, as usual, the thought of talking to someone makes Harry's heart face and cheeks flush and tongue tie up in knots.

So he's here. Here all the time. It seems like he's always here. In the stupid tree until 5:30 everyday, going back in circles about this situation. It takes two weeks before he gets fed up. He all but begs Zayn to drag him to a party. Zayn doesn't. But, recently he's made

friends with Niall, who's always at some kind party. The party is with him in general.

The Friday of the party, school ends and Harry makes a beeline for the river. It's a usual day. He's trying to untangle his headphones when he very nearly trips on a root that isn't a root at all. It's an ankle, a very tanned and tiny ankle with elaborate script. Harry knows that ankle. There are four poems written about that ankle in his journal and a fifth in his head at all times.

He pulls back and looks down at Louis, who's peering up at him all squinty eyed and glowing because of the sun. The look in his eyes is stormy and the tone of his voice makes everything dimmer. "You've made it clear you don't want to talk about it. That's fine. After this, I'll never bother you again. But I can't go home right now. I physically cannot. And I have nowhere else to go. And this is a very nice place to be, and once upon a time this assclown told me I was good company for people who had nowhere else to go. I think he's a bit of a liar at this point, but nonetheless I'm going to sit here. I'm going to sit here and bask in the sun and you're going to be awkwardly silent for half an hour or I'll ask you something about a word and then we'll shut up and wait and then my head will be clear enough to go home and I'll never bother your stupid noodle head again. And that's all there is to it." Harry nods, even though Louis isn't asking him. So Louis moves his head to the other side of the sports bag. Harry waits, three heartbeats and nothing changes. He lays down.

After a few minutes, when Harry thinks maybe the weight in his chest is a little lighter, Louis says, "What's the word for like, pretending to be happy? Like really selling it someone - or everyone - that you're okay and happy?" The broken shards of his heart splinter again. Fuck him. Fuck Louis. Fuck everything.

"Habromania." Harry mumbled.

"Habromania. Well, I'm fucking drowning in habromania. You know they say once you lie to yourself so much, you'll start to believe it."

"I don't know if that's the right way to use the word. I mean, it is a noun but-, oh, yeah, 'm not supposed to be speaking. Sorry about that I forg- fuck. Okay. I'm gonna shut up now." Of course his tongue is more twisted up than his brain and the knots in his chest, of course. It's typical. It's annoying, and Louis is looking at him like he wants to kill him probably.

Except when he looks up Louis looks like he's  close to tears but he's smiling all twisted and sad. "You're too fucking cute. You shouldn't be,  I should hate you, but you're goddamn cute and I can't help but want to kiss you right now."

"Louis -" Harry started.

"Nope." Louis said. "Fucking no. You don't get to talk. Not now. You made that clear enough. "

Now wasn't a very good time to be getting angry, but Harry couldn't fucking help it. It was infuriating, the most infuriating thing in the world to be told you couldn't speak up : forced silence. Harry's silence is different, it's voluntary. His silence is having something to say but no one listening so you just choose not to say it because in the end it doesn't matter.

This kind of silence is brutal, brimming with frustration and anger on both sides. A silence with a heart beat, faster and faster and louder with words that haven't been said yet.

Louis was looking at him like he was setting some kind of challenge. His eyes were stormy and steely, his chin was stuck out defiantly, his hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. Harry tried to keep his hands from shaking, but stayed silent. The defiance in Louis' gaze turned into something crestfallen. He started to walk away.

"Fuck you." Harry muttered, with clenched fists. "Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you, so so much for saying that. Just, fuck you."

Louis' posture was ramrod straight and he turned back around. "Do you not like it when someone takes your right to speech away? When you want to say something more than you want to do anything else in the world?"

Well. If that was his point, it took a fuckton of time to get to it. Louis wanted Harry to speak? Fine. Harry hopes he speaks so much Louis hits him the mouth to get him to fucking stop.

"Shut up. Sit down." Harry snapped.

Louis stared at him for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats and he started to look confused. By the third, he looked angry. In the fourth heartbeat he came to a decision. In the fifth, he opened his mouth to speak, decided against it rounding the sixth heartbeat, he sits down in the grass, frowning.

Harry follows, lacking some grace, and if the situation was different, he would have had more analysis on gone-in-a-flash Louis's half smile.

"Do you want to know why I didn't talk to turn after we kissed? Because I didn't know what to fucking say to you! Don't you understand part of the reason I don't speak is because I don't know what the fuck to say? I didn't know what you wanted. I didn't even know what I wanted; I still fucking don't. You, should know better than anyone that if I don't know what to do in a situation, I go mute and get the fuck out of it."

"I want the truth." Louis snapped, not making any kind of eye contact. He yanked a piece of grass out. "I know you're not good with words, but that's not some kind of fucking excuse you can throw at me to try to make up for making me feel like shit."

"The truth? What's the truth you want to hear? That I'm completely and a hundred and ten percent totally gone for you? That maybe I haven't stopped thinking about that kiss since it actually happened and I kind of want to kiss you again and that I didn't know if I should even say any of this because no one else ever listens when I speak so, all of the sudden, why would you? But apparently that's not an excuse."

His voice started out strong, but ended trembling and he hated himself for this. The one brilliant thing about the human race was that they could start and end wars with words. Words could perform miracles, make or break one's day, define one's life, define everything. Words are the only things that are science and magic all at once. And all you have to do is speak. Just say one simple thing and you can cause happiness or pain or anger or hope or lust or love or all of that at once. Words build us up and tear us down, they shape us. There are an infinite amount of words and there still aren't enough to describe some things in life. People celebrate first words and last words and words said in other languages. All you have to do was speak.

And he can't even do that properly.

He doesn't see or hear Louis move towards him but suddenly there are hands yanking his own from his hair and Louis is sitting in his lap frowning at him. He's quite tiny. Harry's a bit obsessed with that.

Once Louis deemed him calm enough, he said, "What do you call that?"

"What do you call what?" Harry muttered.

"This ridiculously strong desire to kiss someone." Louis was leaning in again, his fingers gently tangled into Harry's curls.

"Basorexia." Harry was closing his eyes and leaning in again. He felt the gentle puff of Louis' breath over his lips and then a smacking kiss to both of his cheeks.

He opened his eyes in surprise. Louis was grinning down at him like a cat. "You know what they say about assuming," he whispered. "It makes an ass out of you and me." And then Louis was kissing him and that angle was off and a little sloppy but

lethologica.

( _lethologica - when you think of something but the word for it escapes you_ )

 

 

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**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to again apologize for my entire existence,, somehow those lame obscure word accounts on the internet have inspired three fucking fics from yours truly.  
> i give a huge piece of my heart to char and em for helping me with this (i'll write you both a thousand sugardaddy fics one day for your troubles: aka putting up with me i swear i will)  
> if you want to hit me up on tumblr (twinkalmighty) or twitter (@laddybrodudepal) it'd be greatly 'prieciated  
> sugar kisses to you


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